Frankly Frank, Herb Caen, 1995

By Herb Caen

Published
7:24 pm PST, Friday, December 4, 2015

Tomorrow, the greatest pop singer who ever drew breath will be 80 years old. Think about it. Frank Sinatra — 80. Frank, the kid who sang “You Make Me Feel So Young” with a lilt that made everybody feel sappy, happy, in love. The skinny guy with the dancing eyes whose salute to “Nancy With the Laughing Face” lit a charcoal burner in your heart — OK, so sometimes the lyrics were a little far-fetched — is about to be the biblical three score and 10, plus 10 for good luck and clean living (suure). Eighty is old and Frank is no longer skinny but no matter. He is evergreen. On the old, worn-out Capitol 33s that spin endlessly in our memories, he is forever skippin’ across the meadow, pickin’ up lots of forget-me-nots. The fingers snap, the band swings, the earth moves. Frank is 80! The voice of “The Voice” is gone but lives forever in that part of us we shared with the young Sinatra.

The first time I saw Frank was in 1939 at Sweet’s Ballroom in Oakland. He had just joined Harry James’ new band on its first tour. After he sang “All or Nothing at All” — arms outstretched at the finish, his lips already doing that patented little wobble — I said to my bud, Jerry Bundsen, “Well, whaddya think?” Jer’ shrugged. “Sings in tune,” he said. Then we looked at his wife, Norma. Her eyes were glazed. She appeared to be in shock. At last she whispered, “Wow.” No doubt about it. The kid had it.

I remember Frank with the Tommy Dorsey band at the Golden Gate Theatre — the great group with Buddy Rich, Ziggy Elman, Jo Stafford, Frank and the Pied Pipers and, of course, Tommy with the velvet trombone tone. Rich and Sinatra disliked each other intensely. Hate? I don’t know, but backstage they got into a fistfight — both were tough kids — that ended with Buddy skewering Frank against a wall with his high-hat cymbal. Frank groaned the title of his then current hit, “Oh Look at Me Now,” and slid to the floor. Late that same night, the whole band went to Finocchio’s and Frank and Buddy joined the late show in full drag, so I guess they didn’t really hate each other.

Fast forward through World War II — Sinatra was 4-F — to Al Williams’ Papagayo Room in the Fairmont Hotel. It’s 2 a.m. Al’s place is the hangout on the late shift. Mexican food in the middle of the night? We were young and indestructible. Frank was on his own now and headlining at (again) the Golden Gate. The critics weren’t impressed with “Frankie,” as they called him, to his disgust, but the schoolgirls were cutting classes to catch his shows and I was giving him sincere plugs. At the Papagayo Room on his closing night, a burly broken-nosed guy in a polo coat came to my table and said, “You Caen?” When I nodded warily, he slipped me a small package, said, “Frank says t’anks” and disappeared. The package contained a solid gold Dunhill lighter. It was the first but not the last time I would be reminded of Sinatra’s penchant for extravagant gifts.

It’s the early ’50s. After some setbacks — at one point, he had nothing going for him but a daily 15-minute radio shot — he was hotter than ever. He always sang well but dumping Axel Stordahl’s syrupy arrangements for the exciting Nelson Riddle charts brought out the essential swinger in Frank, the finger-snapper, the foot-stomper, the guy with a dangerous streak. His first 78 with Riddle, “Got the World on a String,” was a triumph, hard-edged and driving. No more wimpy “The Voice,” this was “The Man.” The first great albums would emerge — “Song for Young Lovers, “ “Swing Easy” — but he was still not a superstar. In L.A. for a weekend, I called his number and he answered. “Whatcha doin’?” I asked. “Nothin’,” he replied. “Wanna grab a bite?” I ventured. “Why not,” he said. “Where?” When I mentioned a famous place on Sunset he said, “No way — they’re anti-Semitic.” We wound up at his favorite, Dave Chasen’s, and then made the bars. No bodyguards, no fuss, no mob scenes. “Hello, Leader,” a few people said. It was his new nickname.

He dubbed me “Northern Leader.” For some reason, the man of mercurial likes and dislikes decided he liked me. Gifts arrived. A dozen silk “show” handkerchiefs, 20 ties, books. At the Sands in Las Vegas, where he was the undisputed “King of the Strip,” he introduced me from the stage. “A lot of people say I don’t get along with the press,” he said, “but this guy is one of my best friends.” The spotlights swung around and I stood up, embarrassed. At the 10th anniversary of the U.N. here, Frank, Andre Previn and other Hollywood entertainers did a show at the Palace Hotel. Backstage, I tried to light Frank’s cigarette with the gold Dunhill he’d given me so long before, but it didn’t work. “These cheap lighters,” I kidded. Next day, a gold Zippo arrived from L.A., inscribed “Try This One, Herb, I Think It’ll Work.” It’s among my souvenirs.

“A great singer is born in every generation but why did Frank Sinatra have to be born in mine?” said a fading Bing Crosby generously. The legend grew, the albums poured out (essentials: “Songs for Swingin’ Lovers,” “A Swingin’ Affair,” “Come Dance With Me,” “In the Wee Small Hours”) and Frank proved he could do it all. He was a surprisingly good actor (an Oscar for Maggio in “From Here to Eternity”), a pretty good hoofer, a master of the one-liner. In his Vegas heyday, the ladies ate him up with their eyes. If you’re lucky, pal, you know that look. Happy 80th, Leader, and a toast to the good times. Hell, make it a double. Still Jack Daniel’s?

This column originally appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle on Dec. 11, 1995.